


Sugar Powdered Donuts

by GizmoTrinket



Series: BBC Sherlock Ficlits Based on OTP Prompts [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drinking to Cope, Drunkenness, F/M, Flashbacks, Healing, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Irresponsibility, Language, M/M, Moving On, Not Canon Compliant, POV John Watson, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Suicide Attempt, Tumblr Prompt, john blames himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 05:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6598381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GizmoTrinket/pseuds/GizmoTrinket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>•	Person B:"Did you eat all the sugar powdered donuts?"<br/>•	Person A:*mouth full of food*"No..."<br/>•	Person B:"Then what's that on your pants?"<br/>•	Person A:"That's cocaine."</p><p>John's learning to cope after the loss of his <strike>love interest</strike> best friend, Harry can't handle the anniversary of her divorce and there's something about Mary. </p><p>This turned out differently than I intended because who writes angst off that prompt?! There is nothing sexual in this story and the suicide attempt is not written out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sugar Powdered Donuts

**Author's Note:**

> (These ficlits are not intended to be serious- they're just random ramblings to keep me occupied while I cope with my life.)
> 
> No beta and no britpicker. Updated with little editing fix-its. If you see anything else please comment.
> 
> Enjoy.

They have the flat on lock down until further notice. I know what they're searching for but they won't find it. Greg is letting me stay with him, I think it's so he can keep an eye on me.

\----

I can't stay here anymore. I'm well enough to get my own flat. Just looking at Greg hurts and I can't do it anymore. I wouldn't go back...

\----

God, I can't even go to the market anymore. I'm having a panic attack in the dairy case because this shop carries that brand of milk I won't buy anymore because one time you experimented on it and didn't tell me before I drank some. If I stay here I'll have to go through the flashback a third time.

I abandoned my cart with the single item I managed to acquire and ran into the alley before I fell apart. I probably look like a drunk but don't care.

Actually, alcohol sounds pretty good right now.

\----

I make it to my flat before opening the bottle. I don't know if I have work tomorrow but I really don't care. The doctor in me is telling me this is a really bad idea, I haven't eaten in days and there's no food in the house. I know just how to shut him up.

The whiskey shuts him up.

\----

Whiskey is getting boring. 

\----

My alcohol collection is too big for the cabinet I'm keeping it in.

My shelves are empty in the sitting room but I don't have any personal items to put in them. None that I want to see, anyway. 

Hm.

\----

There's a bakery on the corner outside the tube station near the surgery I work at. I stagger into it and order a coffee for my hangover. I should probably get something to eat too. I peer into the cases.

The bag of doughnuts I bought for my breakfast is empty.

I glare at my flatmate. "Did you eat all the sugar powdered donuts?"

Sherlock opens his mouth to talk, then shuts it, swallows thickly and tries again. "No..." But his mouth is still full of food because he won't make his own tea. The tea I make tastes better, so he says.

I narrow my eyes. "Then what's that on your pants?" I told myself to ignore the fact that he was only wearing a house coat and pants. Again.

He looks down at the white residue on his silken pants, then back up at me. Then back down and up again. "That's cocaine."

I will myself out of the flashback before the giggling replays.

It's not funny. It was then, but not anymore.

I'm getting better. I'm able to stay in the bakery long enough to accept my coffee.  I may have exited the establishment too fast to appear normal but...

I pat my pocket for my flask.

It's not there.

I wince, remembering why.

\----

"H-h-....lo?" I'm still mostly sloshed and my mouth won't form words properly. The lack of sleep and being forcefully yanked from sleep doesn't help either.

"John? John, it's Clara." She sounds scared.

Oh, Clara. How are you? Why are you calling me in the middle of the night? "Huh?" Well, at least that was sort of a word.

"John... I'm sorry. It's-" She takes a shuddering breath. "It's Harry. It's Harry, John."

What? "Wha...?"

"They called me. We're divorced, I know, but she still had me down as her... emergency person or whatever it's called." She pauses.

A feeling of dread crawls up my spine.

"I wouldn't have called you, you know, normally. I just... It's just..." She huffs at herself in frustration. "I know you're a doctor and I feel like I really shouldn't be making these decisions!"

Oh, God.

"At least, not anymore." She adds in a small voice.

"Clar- you know. 's not your fl-t." Damnit. Still not sober enough to form words. I staggered into the bathroom to run some cold water over my face. I put the phone on speaker before setting it down.

She waits until the water shuts off before speaking again. "I'm kind of in shock. And I'm way over my head here, even if I could think it through properly."

Oh, God. Harry, what have you done now? Hasn't Clara suffered enough? No, not to you. Always the victim, even when you're-

"John, she's... on life support."

"Wha 'pend?" I already knew what happened. She'd finally drank herself to death.

Wait, no. Her liver was fine last time I saw her. And it wasn't that long ago, was it?

What day is it?

"John... I..." She sounded upset, almost, reproachful.

Why?

"Are you drunk?" She was using  _that_  voice. The voice that Harry hated.

 

I considered lying. I didn't want her to think of me  _that_  way. But, I was completely rat-arsed. "...s." Not English. "'stly." Hm, hopefully she can understand that.

 

"I..." She sighed, heavily. I could  _feel_  the disappointment. "I..." She huffed, angrily. "Call me when you're sober, yeah?" She disconnected the call.

I want to say that I was upset. That I was worried about my sister and I couldn't go back to sleep. But what really happened was: I frowned at my phone, shrugged and staggered back into bed.

\----

I'd almost managed to pull myself out of this flashback. The sweet taste of freedom clouded my concentration and I was dragged back in.

\----

The shrill sound of my alarm woke me. I couldn't find the button to make it shut up so I yanked on it until it unplugged and chucked it at the wall. If my alarm was set that meant I had a shift at the surgery. I scrubbed my face and tried to cleanse my brain of all the remnants of my nightmares.

Each one is different but they feature the same image. I don't even know if that image is reality anymore or if my imagination has warped it. I'm pretty sure it is the latter. I don't remember seeing brain matter on the sidewalk that day. I think.

My teeth slip against each other and I try to relax. The force my jaw is clenching at could certainly pop my fillings at the very least.

I toss my head, both to remove the disturbing thoughts and to work off some of the tension in my shoulders.

I hobble to the bathroom and pray my limp is because of a hangover and not-

No.

It's not. Don't even think it, you'll encourage it. And we've been over this, I reminded my brain.

Blood flows from small wounds I didn't notice in my palms. I patch them up after turning off the water. I don't bother to ask myself where they came from, I already know. I've trimmed my fingernails as short as I can but they grow faster than I notice and... well... the nightmares.

I'm tempted to call in sick. Even after brushing six times I'm pretty sure I still have alcohol on my breath. But if I don't go I'll have nothing to distract me. I'll just be sitting in my flat, all day, alone.

I wince at that last word. I hate that word. My subconscious seems to love it- it says it often enough.

What is my phone doing on the counter?

I turned on my alarm and I always plug my phone in before I turn on my alarm. Always. It's one of those stupid habits forced upon me by Sher-

No.

Argh. Yeah, I need a distraction. Work is needed.

I was shaving when I remembered why the phone was in the loo.

\----

Fucking Harry. Fuck. She knew, she knew what Sher-

No.

And then she...

I sighed and dumped my cold coffee into the closest bin and called to say I'd be late. Clara didn't ask why. Which is good because I'm not sure I could explain to her why I was near work and not the hospital. She really was a saint.

\----

God, sometimes other doctors are idiots. We're not allowed to say that aloud but I was thinking it so hard it would have interrupted your deductions. Hell, the shit I can read off this guy is scary; I can't imagine what you'd see. I can almost picture the confrontation-

No.

I need to shut this idiot up or I'll hit him. "Can I just see the chart?"

\----

I listened to the voicemails from yesterday. There were too many and they were all from Harry. I don't even remember her calling last night. I was  _so_ drunk.

I hadn't intended to get that drunk. But, I'd turned on the tele and there you were. It was the anniversary of your death. I only caught the words "new evidence" before the segment ended. I knew there was a reason I stopped paying attention to the date. Every fucking day seemed to have some significance. Some link to you.

It was my fault.

I'm a doctor. I was your friend. I should have known. I should have seen. You were acting weird. Looking back on it I see all the little things like you actually allowing press releases. I know you. You'd never do that. Knew. I knew you. And I called you a machine.

The date.

The fucking date.

The day the divorce was final.

I failed.

Again.

 It was my fault. 

 Again.

 "Thank you, John." Clara smiled at me. "I know this is hard for you."

 You have no idea.

 "I wouldn't have called you, because, well, you know, but..." She trailed off.

 "No, it's good you did." Because this way an idiot won't kill my sister. "I'm sorry you were called in the first place. It was shitty of her to place you in this position." God, that sounded awful. I winced but didn't try to fix it. It was true.

 Clara didn't seem to care. She just smiled a little half smile and snorted fondly. "I'm sure she was just protecting you."

 I choked back a sob and gasped in a twisted way.

She pretended not to notice.

 ----

 I looked in the mirror. I looked like me. Somehow, it reminded me of you. I feel different. I shouldn't look the same. I need to look different. God, I can't even shave anymore because of you. But, doctors shouldn't have beards.

 Hm.

\----

 

There's a new woman at work. I actually noticed her. She's the first person I've noticed since you-

Stop. Stop it John! We've been over this! He's not here! He's not coming back!

 HE'S NOT COMING BACK!

 He's not coming back.

 ----

 I smiled. "Hey, Mary, I had a good time the other night." Mostly. I did while I was with you anyway.

 The twinge of guilt I felt for replacing the "you" of my head was getting better. This was better. Healthier. Saner. It was actually easier without the haze of alchol clouding my thoughts. Harry and I made a deal and I wasn't going to fail anyone again.

 I think I'll take Mary to meet... to see...

 I'll do introductions and say goodbye. She'll understand. There's something about her... I can't put my finger on it.

 It'll be good. Fine. Ok. No, good. Good.

 I can move on.

 I'm allowed to live.

 Right?

 ----

 Mary's good for me. I don't hold one sided conversations in my head anymore. I'm eating. I don't have flashbacks anymore.

 I don't laugh. Not like before, anyway.

 But, I can smile.

 ----

I feel... normal. Admittedly it's a far cry from... whatever. But that was some weird dream state. Like I was high and everything was magic.

 This is real.

 This is normal.

 I'm normal. I belong here- where people don't have arch-enemies, don't have fantastic backstories and are just people. Black cars with women who are not named Anthea aren't stopping for me.

 ----

I can laugh when I see cake.

I can't eat it.

And no one else understands the joke.

And... that's ok.

\----

Mary doesn't understand why sugar powdered donuts are funny (and untouchable).

I shook my head and she understood. Just like she understood that one brand of milk was unacceptable. There were a million little things like that: I don't put anything in the crisper (thumbs), I won't walk past Bart's, I can't listen to classical music (or anything with a violin in it, really), I wouldn't see Hamlet with her (I can't deal with skulls), game night can't include Cluedo, sometimes her tea has sugar in it, I have nightmares but they're getting better. Sometimes I say really odd things like pointing out the reporters wearing pink. She doesn't know why. I don't know if she can understand. I don't try to explain and she understands that too.

I think I love her.

\----

I'm going to do it. I'm going to propose to Mary.

I really do love her.

There's just something about her.

\----

I stopped at the men's counter and had to pretend I was thinking about my ring. It feels odd looking at women's rings.

Jesus.

I'm going to pretend that never happened and never think on it. Ever.

\----

Tonight.

I've set everything up. It was a lot of work and it felt strange for me to go to this much effort but it's going to be perfect. Completely conventional but enough personal touches it'll make her swoon. She likes things to be traditional. Normal.

She'll love it.

\----

 I took a deep breath. It wouldn't do to punch the waiter tonight. It's not acceptable behavior any night but especially tonight.

 ----

 I'm hallucinating.

 I've finally cracked. I thought I was getting better but suppressing everything must have broken my brain. It's only an ordinary brain and now it's broken. That's ok.

 I need to apologize to Mary. I can't marry her now. I've lost my mind.

\----

 She sees him too.

 It's real.

 He's here.

 Sherlock.

 I'm so happy I honestly think I'm going to explode. This is the best day of my life.

 He's not dead.

 I didn't kill him.

  _Sherlock_.

 ----

 There is not enough ice in the world for my hand and my drink. My head is killing me.

 Damn, I can't drink on an empty stomach. I never did get around to eating. We haven't been to the market in ages and I don't want to cook.

 Ah, Mary has some sugar powdered doughnuts in the pantry.

 I'd forgotten how good these are.

 Shit, I ate the whole bag. Mary's going to kill me.

 I'll hide the evidence.

 ----

 "John?"

 "Mary! Mary's back!"

 "Are you drunk?"

 "Oooo... She's angry. Angry Mary." Did I say that out loud?

 "That answers that." She huffed and went to the pantry. "John," She turned to me, fire in her eyes. "did you eat my sugar powdered doughnuts?"

 Lie. She's mad. You need to lie. She's scary when she's mad. "Nooooooooo..." Jesus, I sound high not drunk. I feel kinda high.

 Sherlock.

 My face hurts. Oh, I'm smiling. 

 She glared. "Then what's that on your pants?"

 I looked down at the damning evidence. I'd forgotten to put back on trousers and there was sugar everywhere.

 Don't do it.

 Don't do it.

 She's not going to laugh.

 Don't do it.

 I giggled. "That's cocaine."

 I was right, Mary didn't laugh. But, I did. For a very, very long time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. It is NEVER acceptable to go to work drunk. I am NOT condoning that action or trying to imply that it is ok.
> 
> I don't own anything to do with Sherlock in any iteration. I don't make any money off this and the other basic disclaimer rambling.
> 
> Link to prompt:
> 
> [link Tumblr](http://lookartthat.tumblr.com/post/142930697083/imagine-your-otp)


End file.
